


One King And A Colt

by Apetslife



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sibling Incest, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-05
Updated: 2011-04-05
Packaged: 2017-10-17 15:41:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apetslife/pseuds/Apetslife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A followup to the S2 finale.  They spend the first few days after killing the demon with Bobby, resting up. He'd taken one look at the both of them, said something gruff about the "walking dead" (which wasn't as funny as it should have been), and dragged both of them back to his place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One King And A Colt

They spend the first few days after killing the demon with Bobby, resting up. He'd taken one look at the both of them, said something gruff about the "walking dead" (which wasn't as funny as it should have been), and dragged both of them back to his place.

Sam calls it research time. Dean calls it a WASTE of time, and bitches the whole drive about the horde of evil things out there waiting to be killed. But he sleeps for two days without so much as twitching, and Sam spends quite a few hours sitting on the chair across from his bed, just watching him breathe.

He'd fallen asleep there one night when something jolts him awake, some movement or sound, something. Heart rabbiting, thumping against his ribs, he stares wildly around the tiny room until he spots Dean, sitting up on the edge of the bed, head in his hands.

"Dean?"

Dean doesn't answer, just shakes his head, then drags his hands down his face, fingers digging in hard. When he opens his eyes and stares at Sam, he looks young and lost and strange, and Sam is standing, going to sit next to him, before he's even conscious of making the decision to move.

"It's dead," Dean says, "and Dad." His voice echoes that look in his eyes.

Sam knows the feeling when everything in your life changes, turns a sharp and unexpected corner and everything is different and not at all what you expected. Dean's whole life has been the hunt for the yellow-eyed demon, and now that hunt is over. He reaches out carefully--it's never a good idea to touch Dean without giving him some warning--and puts a hand on his shoulder.

"I know, man," he says, and they sit there quietly, awake in the dark, for the rest of the night.

The next day Dean seems pretty much back to normal. He spends the morning under the hood of the Impala, grease-covered and happy, tinkering. Sam and Bobby read, and read, and read some more, until Bobby slams the huge demonology book closed, raising a cloud of dust, and sits back in his chair, scowling.

"Fuck," he says, a growl.

"Yeah," Sam agrees, rubbing his aching head. "Looks like the only way to break it is to make a deal with a demon even higher up the infernal food chain--"

"Don't even think about it," Bobby says sharply. "Your daddy would come back from wherever he is and kick your ass, and then MY ass, and then Dean would kill us both, and then I'd kick your ass all over again for gettin' me a beating. No more deals."

"It would kind of defeat the purpose," Sam concedes, and goes outside to watch Dean replace the transmission on their car.

"You could help, you know," Dean says, elbows-deep in car guts. It's the first thing he's said in an hour, and it makes Sam jump.

"Not if you don't want that...whatever....to go, like, where the brakes should be," Sam informs him, and grins at Dean's scandalized face.

"It's a fucking crime, how much you don't know about cars," Dean says. "Get over here and learn. You're gonna have to keep her running, you know, after---I will figure out a way to haunt your ass if you let her go downhill."

"You're NOT DYING," Sam says, and he's standing up, hands clenched, right in Dean's face, with no idea how he got there.

"Dude." Dean backs up a step, hands raised. "Relax. I'm just saying."

"Yeah, well, don't even think it," Sam grumbles, a little embarrassed, and sits back down. "And don't think you're getting me to work on the car with that excuse, either."

"I like working on the car, you dumbass," Dean says scornfully, and goes back to work.

Sam just sits and watches, and thinks.

***

There's only one spare bed in Bobby's house, and both Sam and Dean are way too big to fit on the couch. Sam's been bunking down on the floor or in the chair the last few nights to let Dean sleep uninterrupted, but now that he's awake and more or less back to normal, Sam heads to bed early. It's his turn.

"You little bitch."

Sam turns over, plumping the pillow under his head happily, and smirks at Dean, who's standing in the doorway frowning at him, though his voice is amused.

"First one in gets the bed. Bobby's house rules." Ever since they stopped sleeping in the same bed, anyway.

"My back hurts," Dean says hopefully, not moving. "I did actual manly work all afternoon, while some geeks I know but won't name spent all day reading."

"I know reading's hard for you, Dean," Sam answers condescendingly, a pitying smile on his face, "but you should try it sometime. Keep the old brain from atrophying more than it already has."

"Okay, that's it. Shove over." Dean walks straight to the bed, face set in determination, and starts pushing and pulling to get Sam to move over.

"Hey!" Sam yelps. "Quit---Dean! Ow!" He instinctively hitches away from the pinch to his side, and Dean crows triumph and flops onto the vacated half of the bed. "Get off!" Sam shoves him.

"No way in hell am I sleeping on the floor, Sam---OW!" Dean shoves him back, hard, and then they're tussling, and Sam's leg hits the nightstand and it falls with a crash, even as Dean gets him in a headlock, and Sam digs an elbow into Dean's gut, and--

"YOU BOYS KNOCK IT OFF." Bobby's bellow travels even all the way down the hall from his own bedroom, and they both freeze. "I WILL COME IN THERE."

"Shit," Sam whispers into Dean's armpit.

"Yeah," Dean agrees, and they start to untangle themselves as quietly as they can, cursing and grunting until they're lying side by side, panting, staring at the ceiling.

"You got the bed all hot," Sam bitches, pulling his sweat-wet shirt away from his chest with a grimace.

"It's my specialty," Dean leers, and Sam rolls his eyes.

"And the sheets are all tangled," Sam goes on like Dean hadn't spoken. "You SUCK."

"You love me," Dean says, smugly.

"Yeah," Sam answers, suddenly serious, and they're silent again, until they fall asleep like that, shoulder to shoulder, breathing in tandem.

***

Sleeping with your brother as a blanket, Sam thinks blearily as the sunlight wakes him, might be okay in midwinter, or if you're trapped in a snowstorm, but in late summer when it's already fucking hot, it's just no fun at all. He's sweating, almost panting, and Dean is sprawled all over the place, half on Sam and half on the bed, legs tangled up with Sam's, bare skin wet with sweat where they're touching.

Gross.

Sam doesn't move, not an inch. His cock is heavy, interested in all this body-to-body contact, but he ignores that too. He can feel every breath Dean takes, every heartbeat, and he's calm for the first time since they killed the demon.

Dean shifts with a groan, still asleep, and either there's something in his pocket--and Dean's boxers don't have pockets, not last time Sam checked--or his body's enjoying this too.

Sam feels like he should be freaking out. Is a little troubled by the fact that he isn't. But this, this is evidence that they're alive, vital, still here, still together. He's never been much of one for the sexual crises, anyway. His first roommate at college was dating his first cousin, and it never bugged Sam at all, and Sam's experimented with boys, girls, and on one memorable occasion, a boy who looked like a girl. It's Dean, sure, but...it's DEAN.

And it's not like enough people haven't thought they're gay together that he's never let the thought cross his mind.

It's probably better not to start the morning with Dean having a heart attack, though, he concedes, and starts to gently, slowly, shift away.

"Sammy," Dean says clearly, in his sleep, and his hand closes over Sam's arm. Sam freezes, eyes wide, and watches as Dean smacks his lips and turns his face into the pillow and breathes deeply again.

He jerks off in a cool shower, biting his lip to keep from saying Dean's name when he comes.

By the time Dean stumbles into the kitchen, Sam is sitting at the table, looking at the Colt. It's empty now (and what a shame that is), but he's got that itchy feeling in his brain that means he's missing something important, here. He examines it on all sides, running his fingers over it, turning it in his hands like it holds the answers to all his problems.

"Getting yourself a--" Dean yawns hugely as he heads for the coffeepot, "--gun fetish, there, Sammy? Kinky." He drinks the cold coffee straight from the pot, and, just, ugh.

"So uncouth," Sam mutters, going back to his examination of the gun.

"That's me," Dean agrees cheerfully. "Where's Bobby?"

"Went to the Roadhouse with Ellen," Sam says absently. "They're checking again to see if they can find signs of anyone making it out, and Ellen wants to salvage as much as she can. I said I'd go, but." He shrugs. "I think maybe Bobby's got a thing for Ellen."

"No shit," Dean says, and drops into the other kitchen chair with some bread, butter, and strawberry jam. "She's fucking HOT. Bobby'd be stupid not to hit that."

"SO uncouth," Sam repeats, and listens to Dean laugh with a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

***

By the time they're packed and ready to hit the road again, Sam is starting to get seriously freaked out. Dean won't talk about his deal with the devil, except to forbid Sam to worry about it, which, STUPID. But he's also eerily calm. Almost zen.

Zen Dean is not something Sam has experience with. It's fucking freaky, is what it is.

"Quit staring at me," Dean says, and even then he says it peacefully. They've got the windows down and the radio isn't hurting Sam's ears for once and he is seriously going to have some kind of breakdown here, any minute, if Dean doesn't quit it.

"Will you stop being so calm?" he explodes. "It's WRONG, okay? You have to fight it, help me figure something out, here."

"Sam," Dean says, and it's a warning, but it's got none of the anger that Sam's so used to, from Dean. "What's done is done, okay? I told you before, don't--"

"Shut up," Sam says viciously, ignoring Dean's startled, almost hurt look. "Just shut the fuck up about it. You wouldn't let me die if you were in my place, so don't even start."

"That's diff--"

"IT'S NOT DIFFERENT!" Sam shouts, and sets his jaw and stares out the windshield, ignoring Dean for the next three hours.

They seem to be driving in a vague southerly direction, and by the time they stop for the night, Sam's pretty sure they're somewhere in Colorado. He heads in to book their room in the hotel, and, feeling petty, he gets a room with one king bed.

"What the hell?" Dean stops as he walks through the door, laden down with duffel bags, and Sam almost slams right into the back of him.

"It's all they had," Sam lies glibly. "Move your ass."

"Goddamn tourist season," Dean bitches, getting out their guns and setting them out on the table to be cleaned. Sam breathes a silent sigh of relief. The best night of sleep he's had in months was last night, with Dean right there, easy to touch and hear.

Dean cleans weapons and orders pizza, watching television with half an eye, and Sam fires up the laptop. He's got an idea, now, and it's not one he particularly likes, but he has a feeling it's the best shot they have. He's just got to do a little more research.

"Toss me that Colt?" he asks Dean absently, and the gun hits the bed by his side and bounces once.

"You've really got a hard-on for that thing," Dean comments, eyeing down the barrel of his favorite shotgun before giving it a final wipe, snapping it shut, and going on to one of the pistols. "Please don't tell me you're still thinking about the stupid deal. I got a year, Sam. A whole year. I'm good with it, dude."

Sam stares at him. He doesn't seem to be lying. There's just...he can't think of anything to say, so he just shakes his head and goes back to his reading.

"Do not go gentle into that good night," he murmurs over Dean's sleeping head that night, like a benediction, like a prayer. Dean frowns in his sleep, moves to throw an arm over Sam's waist, but doesn't wake.

***

Getting time alone to practice his 'freaky mental powers' is hard enough; it makes his head hurt, and makes him sweat, and it's not really very fun, but he knows better than to do it when Dean's around. At least until he masters something entertaining. The day after they exorcise two ghosts haunting a police station in Farmington--New Mexico has a lot of spirit activity, Sam can't help but notice--Sam yanks a bottle of tequila out of Dean's hand and floats it over to himself, along with the salt shaker and the lime. The look on Dean's face is absolutely priceless. The fact that he immediately suggests heading to the closest craps table, well, that's just Dean.

Getting time alone to put his plan for saving Dean into action, that's even harder. Especially since it's going to be even more difficult to hide. Fortunately, Dean seems to be trying to get as much sex as possible before his year is up, and heads out almost every night they're not driving. Sam tells himself to be grateful, ignores the twisting knot in his stomach that feels a lot like jealousy, and reminds himself that they don't even bother asking for two beds anymore. Dean hasn't asked, Sam hasn't told, but they sleep together every night, and Dean always showers after one of his nights out tomcatting. One king, every time.

Carefully, carefully, he takes out the tools he's collected, and shaves tiny slivers of iron off of the Colt. The light of the dim little lamp catches their edges and makes them sparkle, and he grimaces. Chanting the incantation he thinks will work best, he picks one up in careful fingers, and, teeth set, works it under the skin of his left forearm.

It hurts, oh god, it hurts like a bitch, but he keeps chanting, keeps going, until he's got enough blessed, demon-killing iron under his skin to probably set off airport metal detectors. He hides the Colt in his duffel when he's done, and moving like an old man, crawls into a tub of cold water, washing off the blood, easing the ache and the sting and the swelling. By the time he gets out, you can’t even see where the slivers went in, though his fingers are a little swollen on one hand.

He hurts too much to be touched that night, and when Dean comes back into the room, he's on the farthest edge of the bed, the comforter bunched up behind him, a clear barrier. Dean doesn't say anything, but the door to the bathroom slams hard, and Sam winces.

"What's wrong with you?" Dean asks bluntly the next day, as Sam shifts uncomfortably in the passenger seat.

"I'm probably getting iron poisoning from these goddamn metal slivers," Sam doesn't say. "My fucking skin hurts all over," he doesn't continue. "You not even fighting this makes me miserable," he doesn't add.

"I don't know, just restless, I guess," he says through tight-clenched teeth, and Dean frowns at him like he knows Sam's lying, but doesn't press the issue. Sam's grateful. This is only the beginning, and needs testing, and it'll get worse before it gets better.

The next job they do is demonic possession, and Sam can't really hide his pleasure at that, leaving Dean frowning at him again. But still, the timing couldn't be better. As soon as Dean heads out for the nearest pool hall to replenish their funds, Sam packs up some supplies and starts walking.

Here in southern New Mexico, they take their possessions seriously, and damn is that a relief. When Sam slips into the hospital room, uncomfortable in stolen scrubs, there are crosses and bowls of holy water set up around the little girl’s bed, and a priest sitting in the corner of the room, rosary rattling as his lips move soundlessly in what seems to be the Hail Mary said in Spanish. Sam isn’t used to working with an audience, but as he steps close to the bed, the priest’s head snaps up, and as he opens his mouth to speak, Sam puts a finger to his lips.

Like he thought, they take their possessions seriously here. The priest sits back, curious and watchful, but makes no move to intervene.

The Latin of the exorcism rolls off Sam’s tongue strong and sure; he’s long since memorized it. The girl stirs, grimaces, her face twisting as the demon inside her moves restlessly. Then she sits bolt upright, eyes open and inky black, fixed on Sam’s face.

”You,” it hisses, and the priest starts, but Sam has no time for him, just keeps chanting, trusting in the holy water to hold the demon here. “I know you, Winchester.” It licks its lips, the expression of lust grotesque on a girl no more than ten years old. “We are going to feast on your brother for a very, very long time. He’s stupid, but he’ll taste so sweet.”

That almost breaks Sam’s rhythm, but he forces himself to continue, and the demon howls, the little girl lifting off the bed with its agony. When he gets close to the end of the ritual, he reaches out and lays his hand, the one with the iron under the skin of every finger, on the girl’s head.

The demon screams, shockingly loud, and the demon-cloud that explodes out of the girl’s mouth is thin, almost gray, not the inky-black he’s used to seeing. It rises to the ceiling and drifts away, not quite whole, clearly injured. Sam pants, shattered and exhausted, staring at it.

“Mama?” The little girl’s voice is as clear as a bell, and Sam startles, stepping back. Her face crumples. “Donde esta mi mama! Mama! Mama!”

The priest stands, looking as shocked as Sam feels, and hurries to her side, speaking calm words in Spanish. Sam slips out the door, shaking. But inside, his heart is singing with hope.

“Where the fuck were you,” Dean demands as soon as he gets through the hotel room door, and Sam waves a weary hand at him. “Don’t give me that, you little shit, where were you? I get back here and you’re fucking gone, no note, no nothing…” he trails off when Sam just looks at him, then sits heavily on the bed.

“Took care of that demon,” he says casually, and sits back to watch Dean explode. Ranting, pacing, waving his hands, talking about safety and not being a fucking idiot and backup, and when Dean’s perambulations bring him close enough, Sam stretches out a hand and grabs him, reeling him in, pulling him close. That shuts Dean up, and quick.

“You think I’m letting you get anywhere near a demon before I have to and you’re crazier than I thought you were,” Sam says calmly, and watches Dean’s mouth open and close. Like a fish. He grins at the thought, and then winces when Dean punches his shoulder. “Ow, dude, fuck. It was just a little demon, easy as pie, came right out.”

“Just a little demon,” Dean mutters, shaking his head, but not fighting against Sam’s arm around his shoulders. “Jesus Christ, Sam.” He half-turns, pinning Sam with serious eyes. “Don’t think I don’t know you’re up to something. You’re not fuckin’ subtle, okay? I might be stupid, but I’m not BLIND.”

”You’re not stupid,” Sam says quietly. Dean looks away, uncomfortable as always with any compliment, and Sam tugs him closer, flops backwards, bringing Dean with him. “You have any luck tonight?”

“Yeah, this town is full of people who think they can play pool,” Dean says, and pulls a wad of cash out of his pocket. It’s quite a roll.

“This mean we can stay at a decent motel next time?” Sam asks, staring at the water stains on the ceiling. “Ow,” he says again, peacefully, as Dean smacks him one more time.

That night, he dreams of Dean, naked in his bed, stretched out under Sam and chanting his name, eyes half closed and mouth a little open, looking like sex itself come alive. The dream is so real that he can feel the tightness of Dean’s ass around his cock, taste his sweat when he licks Dean’s throat, feel Dean’s heartbeat as it thunders through his body. Dean’s cock is hard and slick and heavy in his hand as he jerks him off, slow and sweet, in the same rhythm as he’s fucking him. When Dean comes he does it silently, body an arched bow of pleasure as his come coats his belly and Sam’s hand. Sam follows him over, hips working his cock deeper, deeper into Dean, until he’s filling him up, staking his claim, mine mine mine until there’s nothing left inside him, he’s hollow and empty of anything but Dean.

When he wakes up his shorts are cold and clammy wet, and he flushes, hoping Dean didn’t notice. But Dean seems to have locked himself into the bathroom, and won’t answer even when Sam beats his fist on the door, beyond a muffled “GO AWAY.”

Maybe it was the tacos from last night, Sam thinks, and makes a face at the thought, and picks the lock of the empty room next door and uses that shower instead.

Dean won’t look at him the whole day, and Sam gets more and more irritated, until they’re both scowling out their respective windows of the Impala, and Dean is doing that thing where he drives angry, which always makes Sam nuts.

”Slow DOWN,” he finally bites out, and Dean just growls at him wordlessly.

“Fine, fuck you, you want to get pulled over for speeding with a trunk full of ordnance, don’t let me get in your way,” he snits, and crosses his arms over his chest, and doesn’t look at Dean for the rest of the drive.

When they stop for the night it is literally in the middle of nowhere. One motel, one gas station, a tiny dusty general store, and a few battered looking shacks, and Sam sighs as he gets out of the car to stretch his legs. Dean stomps off towards the office, and Sam sighs, wondering what on earth is bugging him NOW. He follows after, slowly, and wonders when he sees that Dean isn’t in the hotel office at all.

Walking around the corner, he freezes. Dean has his back to him, hunched over, speaking quietly and urgently into his cell phone. Sam can’t make out all the words, but he does hear “Missouri” and “powers,” “Sam” and “dreams.”

Feeling himself suddenly go pale, he steps back too quickly, bumps into the wall, and freezes when Dean whips around and stares at him.

They lock eyes silently for a long moment, and Dean doesn’t break their gaze as he says “thanks Missouri, I’ll call you back,” and snaps his phone closed.

“You could have just asked me,” Sam says shakily. “If I’m broadcasting my dreams to you, you could have just, I’ll figure out a way…”

“Not your dreams, mine,” Dean says brusquely, a flush of red on his cheekbones. “Wait.” He steps closer, looking hopeful. “Are you…you’re not reading my mind?”

“No, dude! Geez, like I’d want to.” Sam makes a face. “It’s gotta be a cesspool in there.”

”So last night you weren’t, you didn’t know what I was dreaming about?” Dean presses, ignoring the banter, and that’s always a bad sign.

“No, I don’t…” Sam stops. Flushes. What if that had been…? No, he’s pretty sure that was his own dream, not Dean’s, but… “I think if anything it might be MY dreams,” he goes on quietly, looking away. “Like Andy, you know, broadcasting. The other powers all started when I was sleeping, why not this one too?” He shoves his hands into his pockets and hunches over, miserable. Now Dean will know, and that will be it, no sharing a bed, no closeness, no more of their road trip or his chance to save Dean…

Dean’s voice breaks into his thoughts. “Wait. So you’re saying that last night, that was YOU dreaming about…?” Sam looks at him again, and sees, for the first time in a long, long time, the unusual and delightful sight of his brother blushing bright red. It almost makes him smile.

“I am so sorry,” he says, looking back at the ground. “It was realistic, yeah, but I didn’t realize it was broadcasting or anything, I am SO SORRY, Dean, seriously. I’ll practice, it won’t happen again, I swear, I’ll get it under control.”

When he looks up again, Dean’s standing even closer, but he doesn’t look like he’s going to throw up, or hit Sam, and Sam allows himself to hope that he’ll just let this pass.

”You were dreaming about fucking me,” Dean says it, flat-out and blunt, and now it’s Sam’s turn to blush.

“Uh, yeah.” He admits. “Sorry.”

”That’s why, with the one bed, and the other stuff,” Dean says, almost knowingly, and Sam shakes his head frantically.

“No, man, no, I wasn’t trying to, I’d never touch you or anything, it’s just better having you right there, so I know you’re okay, you know?”

”I know.” Dean shoves his hands into his own pockets, sighs, and tips a shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get a room, I’m starving. All this fucking talking wears me out.” He heads for the office again, looking determined, leaving Sam staring after him, stunned.

Dinner’s a little strained, but less uncomfortable than Sam might have imagined. He carefully doesn’t look at the bed. Dean can’t be too traumatized, he reasons, since he got the one king again. Dean watches television after, and Sam surfs the net. Tentatively, he tries to reach out with his mind, and feel what Dean is thinking. It’d be pretty fucking helpful right now. Of course, nothing happens, and he spends about ten minutes cursing all these stupid powers he gets that only work when he doesn’t want them to.

“Okay, bedtime,” Dean says briskly, a little while later, and it makes Sam jump.

“What?”

“You heard me.” Dean stands by the edge of the bed and starts to strip, and Sam, aghast, can do nothing but watch. Just when he thinks he has Dean figured out… “You coming, or what?” Dean asks over his shoulder.

“Dude, what the FUCK?” Sam says, scandalized.

“Well, the way I figure it,” Dean sprawls on the bed on his back, hands tucked under his head, clad only in his favorite black boxer-briefs, "that dream of yours, it was pretty hot. I’m guessing you’re not that good when you’re awake." The grin he sends Sam is pure Dean; challenging, taunting, and fond. "Since I’ve only got, what, four months left to live, now? I figure I’d better satisfy my curiosity now, rather than later."

Somewhere in the back of his head, Sam admires Dean’s ability to find his buttons and push them so unerringly. He’s kneeling on the side of the bed in two long steps, looming over Dean, who’s STILL smirking.

“How many times do I have to tell you, you’re not. fucking. dying.” Sam snarls out, reaching to shake Dean a little out of that maddening complacency.

“What, you think that Colt’s gonna save me somehow? News flash, Sammy, there aren’t any bullets left,” Dean says, and reaches up, hooks a hand behind Sam’s neck, and tumbles him squawking down onto the bed.

“That’s not the point,” Sam argues weakly. The wind has been knocked out of his sails by the warm smooth skin of Dean’s chest and belly, and he can’t quite make his hand move from where it landed, right over Dean’s heart.

“Not right now, it’s not,” Dean hums suggestively, and rolls them over, Sam unresisting, until they’re pressed together full-body, and Sam bites his lip to keep from moaning.

“This is pretty fucked up,” he points out breathlessly, looking up into Dean’s eyes. Ridiculously gorgeous eyes, he finds himself thinking hopelessly, in a face he loves too well.

“Yeah, well. I’m starting to think that’s my middle name,” Dean says, and puts his hand on Sam’s cock, and Sam can’t help it. He leans up, muscles straining, and catches Dean’s mouth with his own, giving in to temptation, finally, finally.

“That’s pretty gay,” Dean mumbles into the kiss, and Sam snorts, and Dean rears back. “And that’s not sexy,” he informs Sam, who just shakes his head, flips them, and gets his hips settled between Dean’s legs, and it feels so good his brain shorts out.

“Shut up,” he suggests, and kisses Dean again.

Dean kisses with the same fierce, focused intensity he does everything else. He tastes sweet, and smells like home and love and everything good, and Sam scrambles out of his clothes between hungry, desperate kisses.

It turns out they like a lot of the same things. Sam bites Dean’s shoulder, and Dean moans like he’s going to come. Dean arches his back like a cat when Sam digs his fingers into the perfect curved muscle of Dean’s ass, and when Sam sits up, yanking Dean with him to straddle his hips so he can reach all of Dean, Dean gasps and his hips hitch in their constant, rubbing thrusts, and Sam grins.

The hotel room is dark, close, and quiet. They’re in their own little world, so when Dean shouts Sam’s name as he comes down Sam’s throat, and Sam curses, a litany loud and long while Dean jerks him off afterwards, there’s no one to hear or care. And when they’re sprawled, panting, spent, on the bed, it’s quiet except for the sound of their breathing.

“So, as good as the dream?” Sam ventures, when his brain starts working again. He can’t stop touching Dean, leaves a possessive hand low on his belly, even now.

Dean laughs, shaking his head. “Pretty good,” he allows. “Not bad.”

“Wow, stop, you’ll make me blush,” Sam deadpans back, but can’t stop grinning for the world. When Dean flips to his side and looks at him, Sam looks back. He’s got nothing to hide.

“So, what have you been doing with that Colt?” Dean asks. Okay, Sam amends to himself. Almost nothing to hide.

“Working out a way to save your ass,” he answers, hoping that’s vague enough. He’s been feeling sick, lately, and the places where the iron is resting under his skin are tender, bruise easily. “Don’t think that just because you’re fantastic in bed I’m gonna tell you everything.”

”Why not?” Dean almost whines. “Come on, Sam. Tell me. I can help.”

”Yeah, ‘cause you’ve been so interested in saving yourself up till now,” Sam bitches, and starts groping around for something to clean himself up with. He grabs Dean’s discarded t-shirt. That’ll do. “And way to wreck the afterglow, you ass.”

“Hey, we had afterglow. Don’t tell me you wanted to cuddle,” Dean says, scorn dripping from his voice, and he snatches the t-shirt out of Sam’s hands, throwing it out of reach. “My clothes are not your come-rags,” he informs Sam loftily.

Sam stares at him for a moment, then pounces, making shameless use of his height and weight advantage to get Dean on his back again, getting right up into his face, looking into wide, startled eyes. “I am not letting you die. You are the most important thing in my life. I will not survive without you. I love you.” Satisfied, he sits back just a little, taking in Dean’s shocked-still face. “Think about that next time before you start babbling about accepting your inevitable demise,” he says tightly, and pushes himself off the bed to take a shower.

***

They don’t have sex every night, but Dean stops going out and picking up girls, and neither of them even consider getting separate beds. It’s all hand jobs and blowjobs and rubbing off on each other, but Sam’s patient, he can wait. He can’t believe he gets to have this, and finds himself staring at Dean, rapt, as they’re driving.

It always makes Dean flush and grumble, so, bonus there.

A few weeks pass, and Sam gets a little weaker, a little more sick every day, it feels like. Oddly enough his mental powers are blooming, though. He’d caught and held a werewolf with the power of his mind, just last week, keeping it still until Dean could nail it with three silver bullets to the heart. The celebratory sex that night had been pretty amazing, and Sam still blushes just thinking about it.

Dean saunters out of the shower, naked as a jaybird, as Sam closes the phone after hanging up with Bobby. He feels dizzy and sick. It’s confirmation of what he needs to do, the last step in the plan to save Dean, and listening to Bobby shout at him for ten minutes about the danger of it didn't help at all.

He’s going to need Dean. Dean who’s nonchalantly toweling his hair dry, turning just so, so Sam can see he’s half-hard. Sam grins, shaking his head. Dean won’t ever ask for sex, or initiate it; he just does things like this and waits for Sam to jump him. Mostly, it works, but right now Sam’s feeling anything but horny.

He moves over to the bed, though, sprawling out on it, meeting Dean’s puzzled eyes with his own. “C’mere,” he says, “I gotta tell you something.”

”It’s not cancer, right?” Dean quips, "evil twin? Brain tumor?" and Sam makes a mental note to get Dean addicted to something that’s NOT those awful soap operas.

“Nah. Just, I just talked to Bobby.”

”Oh.” Dean pulls on boxers and a tee, and gets himself settled shoulder-to-shoulder with Sam. “What’s up.”

Sam takes a deep breath. “I know how to save you,” he says.

“No way.” Dean turns completely, jaw set. “You’re not doing anything stupid, no deals, no—“

“Nothing like that,” Sam assures him hastily, and Dean settles. The hope that Sam’s always known was there actually starts to show, and Sam smiles to see it, though the smile is tight. “Here’s the thing about the Colt…”

Ten minutes later, Dean’s up and pacing again, unable to sit still. “No,” he finally says, the first word he’s said since Sam finished explaining. “Sam, it’s too dangerous.”

“It’s the only way,” Sam says, stubborn and MEANING it. “You can’t stop me. It’s just gonna be a lot easier, a lot safer, if you help. I’ll summon that bitch and kill her alone if I have to, but I’d rather have you there.”

”Sam,” Dean says, and then stops, looking at him helplessly.

“Look,” Sam says persuasively. “Bobby says the iron will stay molten at a temperature low enough that it won’t melt my hand or anything, as long as we get the charm right. It’s the only way to get enough of it in me to work. You can’t do it, or she’ll kill me. And right after, RIGHT after, we’ll go to the hospital. Get all this shit out of me, off my skin, it’ll be fine.”

”Fine, right,” Dean says, but he’s not protesting anymore. He sits on the bed again. “And this will really work? Because if I summon her three months early and you don't kill her and she cuts my time short out of spite, I will be SO pissed at you.”

“It’ll work,” Sam says confidently. It won’t be fun, not at all, but it will work.

“Okay. Let’s go through this again. Step by step, and don’t leave anything out.”

So Sam does.

That night, Sam goes a little wild, and Dean doesn’t seem to mind at all. He arches and hums in pleasure at the one, then two slick fingers Sam works into him as he blows him, and murmurs for more, and something in Sam’s brain just snaps at that. Surging up over Dean’s body, he pulls his fingers out, looks into Dean’s eyes, hair falling in his face and feeling sweat prickle along his shoulders, so turned on that he can hear his heartbeat in his ears.

“Gonna fuck you now,” he grits out. “Say it’s okay, Dean.”

Dean nods, wide-eyed and panting, and that’s all Sam needs. Lining himself up, he presses in, inch by exquisite inch, rubbing and pulling at Dean’s cock to keep his mind off the stretch and burn. By the time he’s all the way in, Dean’s gasping for air and twisting under him, and Sam starts to move, slow at first. Then Dean gets an ankle up around his waist and a hand in his hair and growls, “Don’t be a pussy, come on, fuck me.” So Sam does.

It feels like it lasts hours, but he only really makes it a few minutes, the mind-blowing blood-hot clench of Dean’s body around his cock the most amazing thing he’s ever felt. He comes before Dean, shaking and crying out, and before the aftershocks are even over he pulls out. Gets two fingers up into Dean, wet with lube and himself and stretched and easy, and swallows his cock again, listening for those noises he loves so well. Dean comes in seconds, and pulls Sam’s hair so hard it hurts, but Sam doesn’t mind.

He doesn’t dream at all, sleeping wrapped around Dean, the scent of them together comforting and familiar and Dean’s heartbeat steady and strong.

***

He’d known it would hurt, even with the protection charms. He’d had no idea it would hurt like this. He’s sweating, shaking, hot and cold as he starts to go into shock, and Dean is driving like grim death towards the crossroads.

The old iron of the Colt had been fairly easy to melt down; Dean had gotten some welder’s tools somewhere, and they’d watched in fascination as it melted into the thrice-blessed bowl Bobby’d sent. Just enough to cover Sam’s hand, make him into the weapon that the empty gun couldn’t be, and as Dean had kept the torch on the liquid metal, Sam had chanted the charms. Protection against injury, against burns, against demons. He’d poured a little holy water into the metal, watched it sizzle into steam, and then nodded tightly at Dean.

They’d had to monitor the liquid carefully; too hot, and no charm in the world would protect Sam. Too cool, and it would solidify. When it had cooled to a sluggish, sticky mess, Sam had taken a deep breath, bit his lip, and shoved his hand into it.

Now they’re driving, driving, and Sam has to lean out the window to throw up, the pain so overwhelming that his entire body is rebelling against it. Beside him, Dean is cursing in a low monotone.

“Get there, get there fast, then hospital, fuck, Dean,” Sam gasps, cradling his hand so carefully in his lap. It’s sheened with silver, and where the silver meets the skin of his wrist, there is angry red blistering starting.

“Fuck this, we’re going to the hospital NOW,” Dean says fiercely, and Sam shakes his head so hard he has to hold back a scream.

“Don’t you dare, don’t you FUCKING dare, we’re killing this thing now, right now, you turn this car I’ll kill you myself.” He’s in so much pain he almost means it.

Dean clenches his jaw, but doesn’t turn off the main road.

Sam’s never seen such a fast summoning. He’s crouched down behind the car, staying hidden until the last moment. Dean buries the box then stands, waving his hands. “Come on, you bitch!” he shouts. “Come and get it!”

The woman who saunters up the road doesn’t seem to be in any hurry, and Sam HATES her for that. He grits his teeth to keep from passing out. The shock has well and truly set in now, and he’s cold, shivering in reaction, and more nauseated with every passing moment. The pain, though, it’s the worst, constant waves of it battering against him.

“Why Dean,” she purrs, eyes only for him. She’s a blond this time, wearing a red dress, and Sam grits his teeth. Wait, he tells himself. Wait. “You’re early. What an eager boy. I do love that in a man.” She circles him, trailing a hand over his chest, and Sam can see Dean’s jaw clench even from as far away as he is.

“I’m here to renegotiate, you dumb cunt,” Dean grits out, and even in the state he’s in, Sam winces. He hasn’t met a female yet, human, demon or other, who likes it when men use that word. And in fact, she frowns at him, stepping back.

“Now Dean,” she scolds, almost playfully, but there’s a dark edge. “Let’s not forget our manners. And you know as well as I do that there’s no renegotiating this deal. You have your Sam, and I get you. How is little Sammy, anyway?” She steps close, almost sniffing him, then laughs, tinkling and surprised and incongruous. “Oh, DEAN. You naughty, naughty boy. You stink of him all over. That’s so…deliciously bad of you. It’ll be almost a shame to take you away from all that sin.”

”I love him,” Dean says sturdily. “No sin in that. And don’t you say his name, you bitch.”

“I’ll say what I like,” she snaps, going from laughter to cold steel in a heartbeat. “Dean, you were very foolish, coming here like this. But then, you’ve never been the brightest branch on the Winchester tree, have you?” She smiles again, cold, so cold, and touches his cheek. “I can take you now, you know. Since you’ve summoned me.”

”But I want to make a deal,” Dean says, and there’s a desperation in his voice that Sam doesn’t like, not at all, even as he’s chanting in his head to hurry up, hurry up, oh PLEASE hurry before he passes out.

“We already HAVE a deal,” the demon says, smirking. “Yes, I think your impatience deserves some punishment. I hope you said goodbye to your darling Sammy.” With no further warning, the demon heaves itself out of its host, the woman falling to the ground, and the black, noxious cloud reforming in front of Dean, who’s staring at it, frozen.

This is Sam’s cue. Half-blind with pain, he staggers up, and runs, runs like he’s never run before, and shoves his silver hand into the cloud, closing his hand around the very center of it and yanking.

The scream is deafening, makes his heart stutter, his ears ache, and the thing in his hand twists, hauling him off his feet. He clenches his fist tighter and won’t let go, won’t, even as his vision starts to black out from the pain, even as he feels his body flung back and forth by the convulsions of a slow-dying demon. Fuck, he thinks fuzzily, never kissed Dean goodbye…

Then it all stops. He finds himself on the dirt of the road, gasping, heaving, hand a solid brick of pain at the end of his nervous system. Decomposing ectoplasm steams gently all around him, and he coughs, spits. “No one gets to call me Sammy but Dean,” he says wearily, and hears the short, hysterical bark of a laugh.

Dean.

Dean’s there, arm around Sam’s shoulders, warm and close and alive. Sam collapses against him, sobbing for breath, turning his face against Dean’s shoulder. Dean, who’s whispering “you did it, you did it, Sam, holy shit, it worked, you genius, you fucking amazing genius, fuck, Sammy, oh my god.”

That’s the last thing Sam hears before he lets go and passes out.

***

"We had to wait until it discorporated to try to take Dean, before I could do anyhing," Sam explains once again to Bobby and Ellen over supper. Two weeks in the burn ward and three more weeks of physical therapy, a very painful day getting slivers of iron picked out of his skin, and his body and hand are almost as good as new, though the skin on his right hand is the shiny pink of scar tissue, and his pinky finger still doesn’t move quite right. "He said I couldn’t kill any civilians." He shoots a grin sideways at Dean, whose mouth is full of fried chicken and who just rolls his eyes.

“I still think you’re crazy,” Bobby shakes his head. “The whole damn thing, crazy as anything I’ve ever heard. But I’m damn glad it worked, son.”

“Me too,” Dean mumbles through his mouthful of chicken. Ellen laughs at him, then turns back to Sam.

“So, where are you boys headed next?” She taps her fingers on the table. “I’ve got a few cases piling up that’d be right up your alley, if you’re interested.”

”Maybe in a month or two,” Dean answers for Sam, who’s still just grinning. “Me and Sam, we’re going to the Grand Canyon. The real wild part, maybe the Great Bend or something, none of that pussy touristy crap. I bet there’s tons of cool ghosts and shit.”

Sam nods. They’re going to the Grand Canyon. They’re going to stay in a nice hotel, and enjoy themselves, and after that, maybe go to LA again; Dean likes LA, and Sam can visit Stanford friends. And then? Who knows.

They have all the time in the world.


End file.
